


Fine Dining

by This_is_your_Heichou_speaking



Series: Prurience [11]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Exhibitionism, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, minor heterosexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 02:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18111506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking/pseuds/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking
Summary: All he could think of was Mr Riddle coming in to check on him and Tom as they did their work, asking them if they needed anything. He remembered Tom later telling him how unusual that was, a scowl on his pretty face, and the confusion that warmed in Harry’s stomach at the understanding that he was somehow different. He remembered Mr Riddle's hands along his shoulders, how he leant in close to tell Harry about the paintings in the main hallway, his mouth brushing Harry's ears so intimately it felt perverse to share it with his best friend's father.





	Fine Dining

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the amazing [Miraculous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miraculous/pseuds/Miraculous) for betaing this ( ˘ ³˘)❤

Despite walking in from the night-darkened streets, the lighting seemed a little too dim at first. The restaurant was lined with darker woods and burgundy upholstery, the lights a warm orange that took some getting used to, but despite its warm atmosphere it was undeniably _expensive_ . Harry felt a little awkward in such a high-end place but Mr Riddle simply sauntered in as if he'd been before. Then again, Harry had realised he walked into every establishment like that.  
  
They were seated rather quickly, and before Harry knew it they were ensconced somewhere in a comfortable corner. It felt almost like they were the only two people in the establishment, except that Harry only had to crane his neck a little in order to see wealthy men and women, sitting around clinking wine glasses and involved in polite conversation. He felt a little jittery, but then Mr Riddle's hand curled around his bicep comfortingly, and he felt calmer instantly.  
  
Soon, it was almost like he'd forgotten how outclassed he was, how new his perfectly tailored suit was, how much money his appetiser alone had cost. Mr Riddle was riveting, fascinating and intelligent, and conversation flowed between them like water down a healthy stream. They talked about how Harry's classes were going, about a new movie he really wanted to watch, and even a little about Tom. Harry became a little quieter at this point, but Mr Riddle smiled and told him, "we really ought to have dinner together sometime, the three of us," and his leer made Harry flush with confusion. He couldn't help but feel like he was missing something unsaid in Mr Riddle's suggestiveness.  
  
He was energetically describing how Ron had yet again managed to put his foot in his mouth and gotten into an argument with Hermione over ketchup vs sweet chilli when Mr Riddle, without any warning, touched his hand. His and was warm and large and bigger than Harry's, but his touch was gentle. He fondled Harry's wrist, and then trailed his warm, long fingers along the side of Harry's wrists and down to the tip of his pinkie, so slowly that Harry didn't even realise he'd stopped to watch. His breathing sped up the tiniest bit and he felt warm, like perhaps the heating had turned up too high. Mr Riddle's slightest movements were so captivating that, even as Harry watched, the distant sound of other patrons seemed to disappear.  
  
Then the waitress stepped up with their main course, and Mr Riddle pulled away as if he'd merely gotten a little enthusiastic in their conversation.  
  
Harry knew he'd gone red in the face. He sat, staring at his fancy pasta and tried to calm down, but all he could think of was Mr Riddle coming in to check on him and Tom as they did their work, asking them if they needed anything. He remembered Tom later telling him how unusual that was, a scowl on his pretty face, and the confusion that warmed in Harry’s stomach at the understanding that he was somehow _different_ . He remembered Mr Riddle's hands along his shoulders, how he leant in close to tell Harry about the paintings in the main hallway, how low his voice was as he told him about such and such an author and their works, his mouth brushing Harry's ears so intimately it felt perverse to share it with his best friend's father.  
  
He thought about Mr Riddle inviting him in for a cup of tea when Tom hadn't come home yet, sitting close enough that their thighs touched, and the way he called him a good boy, a pretty boy, asked him, "so what's going on between you and my son?"  
  
Told him, as he flushed and denied anything beyond friendship, "he'd _be_ so lucky to land one as pretty as you."  
  
He'd come when Mr Riddle had invited him, and perhaps he'd convinced himself of innocence, but as he watched Mr Riddle's mouth wrap around his fork, he understood without a doubt that the man had ulterior motives. He wasn't surprised to realise that he didn't really mind.  
  
Without his even noticing they'd begun to flirt, and Harry found himself rather boldly toeing off his left shoe so that he could trail his socked foot down Mr. Riddle's calf teasingly. The man breathed in sharply—his dark eyes flashing dangerously. Harry just smiled angelically back at him as the young, pretty waitress approached. The two refused to break eye-contact even as she came to stand by their table.  
  
"Anything for dessert, sirs?" she asked. Harry could hear the awkward stilt in her voice. He imagined she was blushing, and it only made him smile wider. He opened his mouth to order when Mr Riddle's voice cut in smoothly.  
  
"Tiramisu," he said, and Harry quirked an eyebrow.  
  
"What if I don't want any tiramisu," he commented before the waitress could leave. She froze, unsure, and perhaps Harry would have felt bad if he wasn't so preoccupied with this new... _dimension_ of their relationship.  
  
Mr. Riddle tapped his chin in a show of thoughtfulness before leisurely leaning back in his chair. "But Harry dear," he said, his voice honey his countenance one of ease. "You'll need something strong to wash the taste of my come out of your mouth."  
  
Harry flushed, his cheeks heating to a light pink, but he never lost the smirk. "Who says _I'll_ be the one with come in their mouth?" he quipped.  
  
Riddle's mouth worked oddly, almost as if he was going to jump over the table to shove Harry to his knees, but just then the poor waitress squeaked in such embarrassment that Harry turned his smile to her. "Tiramisu then," he conceded. "After all, _someone_ will need the strong taste."  
  
She hurried off without even writing it down on her little notepad. Harry supposed it didn't really matter—she wasn't soon going to forget the little show they'd put on for her, so there wasn't much fear of being given the wrong order. Mr Riddle tapped on the table then, his nail sharp on the glossy dark wood, and Harry's attention shifted onto him as if he was trained to do so.  
  
Perhaps, over the course of their acquaintance, he had been.  
  
He smiled, knew he looked pretty when he leaned his chin in his palm and blinked up at Mr Riddle through his lashes. Tom would always redden when Harry looked at him like that, would always turn away in a hurry and then look at him from the corner of his eye like Harry wouldn't see, wouldn't notice. Mr Riddle wasn't _quite_ so transparent—perhaps age had something to do with that, but even he couldn't really hide the way his eyes trailed down to his lips, the way his fingers tightened on the table as if he was trying to hold himself back.  
  
He cleared his throat, the sat up straighter so he was looking down at Harry somewhat imperiously. "You were quite mouthy just then," he said. He sounded stern, but there was a curl to his brow that belied his amusement.  
  
Harry shrugged carelessly. "I wouldn't want to give people the wrong idea," he replied simply. Mr Riddle's lips quirked up for just a second, so fast Harry almost thought he'd imagined it.  
  
"I don't usually let such behaviour stand," he said, a little more firmly. When he leaned back into his chair and relaxed his muscles, he exuded such dominance, such _poise_ , that Harry immediately _wanted_ to drop to his knees, to give in. He swallowed hard.  
  
"Oh?" he murmured. Then, feeling a little braver, he put his hands on the seat by his hips, pushing his shoulders up and back so his chest stuck out. Mr Riddle's eyes went straight to where his nipples would be, had he been wearing a thinner shirt or, perhaps, nothing at all. Harry had to suppress the urge to grinned, instead schooling his face into an expression of faux naiveté.  
  
The man's eyes flicked back up to his eyes, then slowly back down to his mouth, his collarbones where they peeked through his open shirt-collar. He licked his lips, slowly, and reminded Harry strikingly of a wild predator, a wolf licking its chops. It made him feel oddly vulnerable, like the show he put on was laughably easy to see through.  
  
He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side. "So who's gonna need that tiramisu then," he said, so quiet that he wasn't sure if Mr Riddle would even hear. But the man's grin slowly widened, and as he relaxed back into his chair he reached down between his legs meaningfully.  
  
The sound of the zip was like the crack of lightning, so loud and obvious that Harry couldn't even pretend not to understand.  His cheeks bloomed red, and his eyes widened with both embarrassment and incredible lust. His mouth opened, without his consent, and he thought distantly he might even be salivating. Oh, what an effect Mr Riddle had on him, if just the idea of his cock had Harry so hungry.  
  
"On your knees then, sweetheart," Mr Riddle ordered. His voice was firm, unyielding enough that even the thought of protest never crossed Harry's mind. The man was a near stranger to him—they'd never spent more than an hour in just each other's company until this evening, and yet Harry couldn't help the way his mouth watered. He shouldn't want to get on his knees and suck an older man's cock— _shouldn't_ —but he couldn't help it.  
  
He slid under the table.  
  
Mr Riddle's legs were spread wide, his shoes shiny and his trousers perfectly pressed. His fly was undone, and his hand was moving leisurely along his rigid, flushed cock.  His fingers were long enough that they wrapped all the way around its girth, but Harry knew his hands were significantly smaller. They wouldn't be able to curl all the way around its shape, and the thought made fire spread across his shoulders.  
  
As he watched, Mr Riddle's thumb rubbed over the head of his cock lazily, like the man was in no hurry. Harry scooted forward, and suddenly felt the urge to open another button on his shirt to cool down. He felt almost as if his flush had painted his face permanently red.  
  
His fingers fumbled, taking much too long to pop a button from its place. He was near enough now that he'd just have to stick his tongue out to be licking at Mr Riddle's cock. He didn't—instead let cool air rush down onto his chest, and pushed his hand into Mr Riddle's pants to pull out his balls.  
  
They were large and heavy in his hand, and his mouth went straight to the warm skin, at first mouthing gently and then vaguely biting, pulling, licking. His nose was full with Mr Riddle's scent, a musky heaviness that made him want more of Mr Riddle in his mouth.  
  
Above him, he heard Mr Riddle laugh—perhaps at his eagerness, but he felt a little adrift. He could scarcely remember where he was—the tiled floor under his knees nothing but a distant ache, one foot devoid of its shoe while the other bent under leather to stabilise him.  
  
Warm fingers threaded themselves into his hair, and then Mr Riddle was guiding him, so gently Harry could almost pretend that _he_ was in control. The barest pressure on the back of his skull made Harry move up, made him lick at the skin just under the head like he'd been taught what to do.  
  
Mr Riddle's thighs clenched in either side of his ears and his fingers flexed, pushing against the base of Harry's scalp, and the knowledge that he was doing _well_ almost made him feel like he'd come where he kneeled, untouched.  
  
He moved his tongue around, pressing firmly, and when Mr Riddle lost his patience growled demandingly, he finally wrapped his lips around the cock and _sucked_ .  
  
The reaction was immediate. Mr Riddle almost pulled him off, then seemed to want to shove him down instead. His pointy, fancy shoe pressed against Harry's right calf, almost as if egging him on, and Mr Riddle's other hand pressed into the material of his perfectly pressed slacks. Harry wondered if anyone would notice the creases when, later, they would have to walk out before countless stares.  
  
He took more of Mr Riddle into his mouth. His mouth felt so wet, _soaked_ , and it eased the way. His lips moved down and his tongue pressed hungrily against the underside of Mr Riddle's cock, and then the man seemed to have had enough.  
  
"I think," he groaned, "that you've forgotten what this was about." His voice was huskier, deeper than before. Harry imagine him with his eyes fluttering, his lips bitten red from trying to keep his voice down, and felt like he might grin but for the cock in his mouth.  
  
Mr Riddle's thighs tensed and firmed under his touch, pushing wider, and then his hand was pulling him down firmly. He pushed his cock so deep into Harry that it hit the back of his throat, and then deeper, without regard for Harry.  
  
He struggled to breathe, his hands scrabbling at the smooth black of Mr Riddle's trousers for some kind of purchase. He could feel his throat convulsing desperately around the thickness, could feel himself feeling fainter and weaker.  
  
And then Mr Riddle pulled him off again, up by the grasp in his hair. He gasped, his mouth wet and wide and aching, like it'd never feel the same again. Mr Riddle looked down at him, immensely smug, his eyes glinting oddly brightly in the orange lighting.  
  
"This is about showing you your place, darling,” he said, his palm moving soothingly across his cheek and jaw. "And where is your place?"  
  
He paused, and Harry felt like he was waiting for something. After a second, he said, "on my knees?" His voice was so hoarse it sounded like he'd been sobbing, but Mr Riddle seemed pleased by it, by _him_ .  
  
"Only before me," he added gently. Then, after a pause and a leer, "for now, at least."  
  
Harry felt himself warming again, his heartbeat racing under the skin of his chest. Mr Riddle was saying something—implying something, like he had all night or even since they'd met. Harry felt like he ought to grasp it, like he _knew_ but wouldn't admit it to himself. He looked at Mr Riddle, who looked at him like he was a particularly pleasing pet, like he had _plans_ for Harry, and a part of him wanted to ask Mr Riddle to explain himself.  
  
Instead, he opened his mouth in offer, and Mr Riddle lead his cock to Harry's lips once more.  
  
He let Mr Riddle push in again, let him control the pace and the depth. The man thrust shallowly at first, barely getting his cockhead past Harry's lips before pulling back out. He did this a few times, keeping up until finally Harry opened his mouth wider and tried to push forward. When that didn't work he whined, looked up at Mr Riddle and fluttered his eyelashes just _so_ .  
  
To his delight, Mr Riddle's skin went a little pinker as he stared down at Harry. He dared to smile up at the man, let his tongue slip between his lips to lick slowly, _salaciously_ at the swollen red of his mouth. Mr Riddle's eyes widened, the pupils huge enough to drown out the colour of his irises, and before Harry knew it his face was getting shoved back down.  
  
Mr Riddle pushed all the way in one go, let him choke until his bruised throat settled. He held Harry in place until he stopped struggling, and then let his fingers loosen enough to scratch at Harry's scalp.  
  
It felt heavenly, and for a long, delicious moment Harry felt like he could stay there forever. But then, just like a bucket of cold water, he heard the smart _click_ of high heeled shoes on tiles.  
  
His eyes snapped to the side, and it was with an intense stillness that he watched their waitress approach. Her legs were long and well muscled, covered in black tights, and as Harry watched she came to stand close enough that he could, if he wanted, reach out and grab her ankle. He watched her muscled clench as she set something down on the table—presumably the tiramisu they'd ordered, and then paused awkwardly.  
  
"He's gone to the toilet," Mr Riddle said unnecessarily. Harry rather thought it was testament to how affected he was—usually he'd just stare unnervingly until the person interrupting him went away, or perhaps smile politely and say ‘ _that will be all_ ’. He was rather like his son in that, but all of his cool seemed to have escaped him for the time being.  
  
The waitress coughed, probably nodding. Harry saw her step back, ready to turn and walk away. He watched almost as if dazed, lost in his thoughts and the colours and the heavy feeling in his throat. It was on a whim that he decided, before she could get out of earshot, to _swallow_ .  
  
Immediately a groan left Mr Riddle's throat. It was loud enough in their quiet corner that she had surely heard it, and perhaps caught on to what was happening. Of course, she couldn't really do anything about it—Mr Riddle was rich enough to buy the place twice over. She hurried away faster, embarrassed and shaken, and Harry watched her disappear with a sense of glee.  
  
Mr Riddle's hand tightened in his hair punishingly. As soon as the waitress clicked her way out of earshot he thrust up once, then twice, so deep that Harry felt he must be imprinted along his insides. He pushed Harry's nose into the hair at the base of his cock, until the only thing he could think of was Mr Riddle.  
  
He barely had time to gather himself, his throat sore and his eyes watering. Mr Riddle held him still, fucking into him harder and harder until he felt almost dizzy with the speed. He fucked Harry like he was just a convenient hole, and even as he did Harry couldn't help but wonder how he would look at Mr Riddle later, tomorrow, _when Tom was there_ .  
  
Oh, how could he possibly tell Tom he'd let his best friend's father fuck his mouth, never mind that it happened in a _restaurant_ .  
  
His cock throbbed in his trousers, and Harry didn't want to admit that the idea of Tom _knowing_ , of Tom _seeing_ had him hard enough to burst. He let himself open his fly, took himself in hand and slid his hand down his cock, slowly. It felt unimaginably good, like hadn't touched himself in forever.  
  
He let himself press in all the right places, just as he preferred, and worried that he'd come as Mr Riddle became harsher with him. He'd never felt so much like an object before, like a thing _made_ for Mr Riddle's pleasure, and it made every nerve in his body light up in arousal.  
  
The man became frantic—sloppy, his hips moving unevenly and his breathing coming in shorter, harder gasps. He could feel it coming, feel the wet warmth like it was a memory. He sucked, and with one last push Mr Riddle came down his throat.  
  
He opened his mouth wide, lax, and let the man do as he wished. Mr Riddle pulled his dick out, wet, dragged it against Harry's loose tongue as he did. He let Harry lean forward and kiss the head almost fondly, let him move to mouth at the balls hanging below.  
  
It was clear he felt sensitive—he hissed as Harry licked at his cock, but he leaned back lazily nonetheless and let Harry take his time before pulling himself up.  
  
Harry felt shameless by now. The waitress already knew he'd basically sucked off Mr Riddle under the table—was there really anything more exhibitionist than that?  
  
He slid up Mr Riddle's body slowly, taking the opportunity to grope at his arms and his chest and his legs. They were firm—clearly Mr Riddle was a man that believed in fitness. The thought of those strong legs between his own, or perhaps those arms holding him up against a wall whilst Mr Riddle had his way with him _in other ways_ made Harry blush oddly. He wasn't quite sure if it was just arousal that made him want to press closer, or a different sort of admiration.  
  
Nevertheless, feeling rather daring he let his legs fall on either side of Mr Riddle's hips and pressed his chest close, until their mouths were barely inches apart. They stared at each other for what seemed like a small eternity, and then Mr Riddle smiled.  
  
"Well," he said. "I suppose you've earned this after all." And, reaching behind Harry, he took a spoonful of dessert to press to Harry's lips.  
  
He let Mr Riddle feed him without protest. The tiramisu was soft, cold, the cream sweet and the coffee bitter. It was strong enough to sweep the taste of cum from his mouth, from his tongue, but it was more the way Mr Riddle's eyes went warm that captured Harry's attention.  
  
Even though he'd just let Me Riddle fuck his mouth, it was now that he felt unbearably naked. His cock still stood straight out of his trousers, but all Harry could think about was how incredibly _intimate_ this felt.  
  
Mr Riddle pressed another spoonful to his mouth. Harry let himself taste it, swallow it, and then leant forward to press his lips against Mr Riddle's.  
  
They were surprisingly soft—or perhaps not really, except that Mr Riddle had always seemed a hard man. A firm sort, the kind to be harsh and critical. He'd seemed to Harry somewhat like stone—stone he'd learned to find brief and exciting cracks in, perhaps, but stone nonetheless. To find a part of him to be so soft, so sweet, was shockingly endearing to Harry.  
  
He wrapped his arms around Mr Riddle, deepening the kiss between them. The man hummed delightedly as he licked into Harry's mouth—he supposed that Mr Riddle must like coffee. It was nice, he thought. It had been so long since he'd kissed another person like this.  
  
He almost didn't mind having to finish himself off. His hand moved back down to his cock—he was so close after well, only a stroke or two would to it, but Mr Riddle's grip was sudden and tight around his wrist.  
  
He pulled back to look at Harry and, without breaking eye contact, raised his hand to call the waitress to their table.  
  
Harry's eyes widened when he realised what was happening. The lady would see him like this, legs spread akimbo, a show missing and his cock hard and red and out in the open. She'd _see_ . He'd been wrong to think that her merely _knowing_ was the worst that could happen—he knew that now, understood with a sharp clarity that cut lines into his lust.  
  
He wondered at how she might react. Surely it was one thing to guess through context, and another altogether to _see_ , with one's own eyes. And yet he didn't mind—her face became suddenly sharper in his mind, her kind eyes and painted lips more important. And even as he watched her walk over, as he watched her stumble at their position, he found his opinion slowly changing.  
  
He _wanted_ her to see.  
  
Mr Riddle turned him so that Harry's side was pressed up against his chest, pressing his grinning mouth into Harry's hair. His cock faced the woman, as she neared, but she seemed determined not to look at it or, in fact, at either of them.  
  
"What can I do for you, sirs?" she asked. Her voice trembled viciously. Mr Riddle put his chin on top of Harry's head and smiled genially.  
  
"We have a little problem, you see," he said, sounding almost as if he was at a business meeting and not in a restaurant with a somewhat naked boy in his lap. "I was hoping you could help me."  
  
She swallows hard, her cheeks going so dark that he wondered how the capillaries there hadn't burst yet. "Sir?" she squeaked out.  
  
Mr Riddle nodded as if it was all very serious, very normal. "Look at this sweet boy," he said, his gaze flickering towards Harry, and she hesitantly did as asked. He wondered what he looked like to her. He wondered if he looked about as debauched as he felt.  
  
"Don't you think he deserves a gift?" Mr Riddle continued. "A kindness? Mercy, even." He moved his hand down to Harry's cock and turned his index finger about the tip, making Harry arch his back desperately.  
  
She watched almost helplessly, but when Mr Riddle's gaze hardened she nodded shakily.  
  
"Yes sir," she whispered.  
  
Hands gripped at Harry's thighs in response, pulling them wide. Mr Riddle nodded with his head, and she moved forward a half-step, as if she'd acted before even realising it. "I'm sure he'd appreciate your assistance," Mr Riddle said. "In fact, I'm sure you'll be compensated _beautifully_ for your help." For effect, he pinched at Harry's arse, and Harry couldn't help the high pitched whine that escaped.  
  
Her lips pursed as if in thought, and once again Harry couldn't help but marvel at the strong red of her lipstick. Finally, as he watched, she nodded and moved forward.  
  
And then looked confused again. Mr Riddle sighed, but it sounded so soft that she smiled almost timidly in response. "Your hand will do, my dear," he said. She nodded again, and wrapped her slim fingers around Harry's cock without preamble.  
  
They were even smaller than Harry's, her fingers long and thin, her fingernails trimmed and clean. She squeezed a little, almost experimentally, until Harry gasped because of the firmness of her grip. Then she smiled up at him and oh, she looked every bit an imp now, every trace of shyness and hesitancy gone.  
  
She held him tight, and wanked him off with quick, efficient strokes.  
  
He gasped, and almost before he could help it he was coming. She moved to the side so that it would pool onto the floor, and then refused to stop even as he finished coming.  
  
His entire body shook, but Mr Riddle didn't even move. He watched lazily, contentedly, until she had watched him gasp out for mercy at least three time, until his eyes felt wet from the incredible force of her hand in his oversensitive cock. She leant back almost as if she'd merely been pouring wine, and took a napkin from the table to wipe her hand on.  
  
Mr Riddle was silent for a moment, waiting until she's finished. Then he pulled Harry's head tightly into the crook of his neck. She waited patiently.  
  
"We'll have the check, I think," he said. She smiled politely.  
  
"Certainly sir," she replied, and turned in her heel to walk away. Her hips swayed with every step, and Harry wondered if it was because she was pleased or if he'd just failed to notice before.  
  
There was a deep sort of exhaustion that had settled into his bones—the sort that didn't necessarily warrant sleep, but made him loose limbed and did away with his inhibitions. Mr Riddle let him kiss at his neck as he pleased, leaning his head back so that Harry could mouth at his Adam's apple at his leisure.  
  
When she came back with the check, Mr Riddle gave her a tip large enough to make her eyes widen and her mouth stretch into a smug grin. He laughed at her pleasure, and then wrapped his arm around Harry's shoulders to walk them to the car.  
  
As they drove away, Harry let himself lean against Mr Riddle's shoulder. "We ought to come here again sometime," he said.  
  
Mr Riddle laughed. "Oh, we will." 


End file.
